


If We Should Meet Again

by DebraHicks



Category: The Rat Patrol
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:02:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27186298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DebraHicks/pseuds/DebraHicks
Summary: War is hell, as Sam Troy knows all to well.  Lost friends and lost enemies remind him a soldier can still be human even in the hell of war.Published in "Dreams and Schemes #12."  5/1/1997
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	If We Should Meet Again

It was after midnight before they took Hitchcock into surgery. Troy had paced beside his driver's stretcher for eight hours, fuming at the nurses, demanding to know when they would help the younger man. Each time he had been met with quick professional answers that just bordered on angry. Now, with Hitchcock sleeping peacefully on the cot, Troy took his first good look around the hospital. It was a wonder they had gotten to Hitch so soon. Mareth had fallen the day before, leaving thousands of wounded Allies and Germans. Even now, hours after him and Hitch had arrived at the hospital, they were just beginning to treat the first enemy soldiers. It was a harsh rule of warfare -- treat your own first, then the enemy.

Hitch would sleep through the night. The young blond would be fine, though the wound would gain him a trip stateside. Troy stood, nodded to the nurse who had been trying all evening to chase him out. Walking into the desert night, Troy lit a cigarette and merely stood. Their war was almost over. With Hitch going home the Rat Patrol was no more. Even with just the two of them, he’d been able to convince himself they were still a team, but it was time. Rommel had retreated to Berlin two weeks before. Mareth, Allied Command agreed, was the last offensive the Germans could mount. Tully would have said, it was all over but the shouting.

A familiar wave of sorrow went through Troy. Tully had been dead nearly two months now but it still hurt to think of him. The touch of sadness brought with it the familiar wish for Moffitt’s presence. But when their war of attrition had become one of offensive, Moffitt had been reassigned to the Grays. They kept in contact, and as of two days before the man had been fine, but that wasn’t the same as having him nearby.

Troy stopped suddenly; he had not realized he had been walking. He rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. A large, open-sided tent was to his left, his jeep to his right. With a frown he recognized the tent -- the men called it the “DE Tent.” DE for dead end. It was the tent where those who would never see surgery were taken; the place where those too badly wounded were given a chance to die in peace. He watched sisters, priests and nurses moving between the long rows of Germans and Allies, ministering to all. The irony of the tent didn’t escape him -- only here, at the end was there equality. Taking a deep breath, Troy dropped his cigarette and started to the jeep.

He stopped even before he had completely registered what his eyes were telling him. Turning slowly, he looked back. A familiar body lay in the darkest part of the tent, away from the harsh electric lights and moving nurses.

Again he found himself moving without thinking about it. He took his hat off, walked quietly to the nearest sister. “Excuse me,” he started. 

The nun looked up at him. She was young, though the lines of fatigue and sorrow had aged her beyond those years. For a moment, she stared at him blankly, as if surprised to find a live person in her domain of death. Finally, she smiled gently at him.

“May I help you?” She questioned in a light French accent.

Troy cleared his throat. “Yeah.” Pointing, he asked, “The Wermacht captain over there... uh, is he... Is there any thing.... I mean, now that the doctors can get to the prisoners...”

She held up one hand, stopping a speech she had obviously heard before. “Sergeant, there’s...” Seeing his determination, she touched his hand lightly. “Let me check.”

As she started to turn, Troy touched her arm. “Don’t tell him about me.”

That earned him a strange look but she nodded. A moment later, after looking at the chart hanging on the end of the cot, she came back. There was no sorrow or pain in her gaze and for a moment Troy wondered if it was because the officer was German. He realized it was because she had simply seen too much.

Shaking her head, she said, “I’m sorry. His injuries are very severe. Perhaps if he were in Cairo or...”

“I could get him there,” Troy said suddenly.

His interest surprised her. “You know him.”

“Yeah,” Troy nodded. “We’ve run into each other.” 

Softly, she said, “He would not survive the trip. He’s in no pain. We make sure of that. He is awake, if you would like to sit with him.”

Dietrich was dying. Would he want to see his oldest enemy alive and well? Troy shook his head. “No. I don’t think he’d want that.”

“Sergeant, he is alone. I would think that anyone, even an enemy, would be better than that.”

Troy took a sharp breath. He hadn’t been with Tully. No one had. It was the thing that most haunted his memories of the young private. Smiling weakly at the sister, he said, “Maybe. I’ll at least ask him.”

She nodded, then returned to her work, leaving him alone. With a deep breath, he moved through the surprisingly silent tent. Dietrich was covered with a heavy blanket to his chest. His eyes were closed, his breathing short and swallow. A deep cut ran along with side of his throat and a bruise colored the fair skin around one eye. Troy looked down, took a sharp breath; Dietrich had lost his left leg. Those were the injuries he could see; he knew the rest were worse. Hesitantly, he reached out and lay one hand on the captain’s upper arm. 

The brown eyes he had come to know so well opened slowly, stared up at him, first in confusion then in un-surprised acceptance. 

“Captain,” Troy said quietly.

“Sergeant.” Dietrich’s reply was a little breathless, his tone a little slurred. But it was still the same deep voice Troy remembered shouting orders across the battlefield or calling him out of unconsciousness on the end of a chain.

Words deserted Troy for a moment. Finally, he simply asked, “Do you want me to stay?”

Dietrich considered his offer for a single heartbeat. “Yes.”

“I’ll get a chair.” He started to turn, then awkwardly asked, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

This time the pause was longer. Dietrich looked up at him with hope glittering behind the drugged glaze. “Yes, Sergeant, there is.” Troy frowned, leaning in to hear the weak voice. “I would prefer to die someplace else.”

“Captain, that may not be...”

“The desert....” Dietrich paused for breath. “In the open. Perhaps even to.... see sunrise.”

Understanding, Troy nodded. “I’ll try. I’ll be back.”

The desert cold settled in around him as he killed the jeep’s engine. It had been surprisingly easy to get help to move Dietrich. The doctors were too busy to do more than just wave an orderly to help him. As they moved the captain to the jeep, the sister he had first spoken to had handed him a vial of morphine, telling him how much to give to keep Dietrich out of pain without knocking him out. Dietrich had thanked her with a soft smile.

It took several long minutes to get Dietrich out of the jeep. Troy lowered first his feet to the sandy ground, then his head, thankful that he was strapped tightly into the stretcher. As he finished, he realized that Dietrich’s eyes were closed. He moved up, lay his hand on the captain’s throat. A pulse barely beat under his fingers. Dietrich’s eyes opened and he stared up a Troy for a moment, then passed him to the endless sky.

“I have always... loved the nights... here,” he said softly.

Troy followed his gaze up. “I remember one of the first things I thought when I got here was how bright they were.” He patted the German’s shoulder. “I’m going to move the jeep, start a fire.”

He made them both as comfortable as possible. The fire took away some of the cold, stopped the slight shivering he could see along Dietrich’s body. He thought of asking what had happened but decided it didn’t matter. 

“Where are the others?” Dietrich asked.

“Tully’s dead.” Troy said levelly.

“I am sorry,” Dietrich replied.

Troy wanted to get angry but the night had been too long. “Why? You tried to kill us often enough.”

The brown eyes closed for just a moment. When Dietrich looked up at him he wore the same patient, resigned look he’d so often been forced to display as he watched his convoys be hit. “As an enemy soldier,” Dietrich said, “no, I am not sorry. But to you, for the loss of a friend, for that I am sorry.”

Troy took a sharp breath. He had known the difference but hearing Dietrich speak of it brought the memories back. He shoved them away. “Moffitt is with the Grays. Hitchcock was in the hospital where you were.”

Pain, not physical, entered Dietrich’s dark eyes. “I don’t know about my men. I was hit... and no one... could tell me.”

His voice faded out so suddenly that Troy straightened, laid a hand on the thin shoulder. Dietrich shifted slightly but his eyes remained closed.

“The not knowing, that’s the worst,” Troy admitted. “I didn’t find out about Tully until two days later.”

Troy felt a tremor go through the strangely frail body under his hand. He stood and retrieved another blanket from the jeep, tucking it around Dietrich. A slight smile touched the captain’s lean face.

“Aid and comfort to the enemy, Sergeant?” He questioned.

“Yeah, well, we never paid much attention to that, did we?” He picked up the canteen, slipped his hand under Dietrich’s head and raised him to the water. Dietrich took only a swallow. “How did you get left here?” Troy wondered.

“Someone had to,” Dietrich replied, still with his eyes closed. “My successes were not so good lately.” He said it lightly, almost with a touch of affection. Troy sighed, knowing that Dietrich would have been shipped home had it not been for his team.

Troy leaned forward, hoping the captain would open his eyes. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You brought me here,” Dietrich said, as if that were more than enough.

Troy shrugged. “It isn’t much.”

The German seemed to think it over, then with a nod to himself, he said, “I would like to write my father.”

That shook Troy. He had written Tully’s folks. That had been hard enough, but to listen to someone say his last good-byes, that would be worse. Troy stood. “I’ll get some paper.”

He grabbed a pack from the door net, jerked out an old map. Frowning at it, he noted absently that it was one of those that they had once fought over. Now it was only useful to write a letter home on. Maybe this was more important. 

“I’ll Moffit to translate it into German,” Troy said as he sat back down. “He probably wouldn’t want to get it in English.”

“German is a beautiful language,” Dietrich whispered. 

“So Moffitt keeps telling me,” Troy quipped. 

In his soft, deep voice Dietrich spoke several lines in his native tongue. They were light, flowing, not the harsh commands Troy had heard so often. Dietrich stopped, eyes flickering to Troy.

“What does that mean?” Troy asked.

“The pork sausages... look especially good this morning,” Dietrich replied dryly.

Troy stared at him, as he had always did when the normally stand German made a joke, then he started laughing. Dietrich managed one short laugh before pain took his breath away with a small gasp. Troy put a hand on his shoulder.

“Easy, easy, breath slow. Do you need some painkiller?”

Dietrich shook his head. “No. I just need not to laugh.”

“Never had an overabundance of that around here,” Troy said.

But Dietrich smiled. “Operation Diamond... was quite amusing.”

“Well,” Troy said with a smile of his own. “I’m glad to know you enjoyed it as much as we did.”

“My superior.....”

Dietrich suddenly cried out, arching back against the still warm sand. Troy grabbed him, holding tight, while Dietrich trembled with the pain. 

“Okay,” Troy said, as the spasm eased. “Morphine. No arguments.”

His hands were shaking as he pushed the needle home. A few minutes later, Dietrich sighed, sinking back. “The letter,” he whispered.

Troy grabbed the pencil and paper. “Go.” 

He tried to write without listening. It was typically Dietrich, short, to the point, not flowery or maudlin. Dietrich’s voice broke only once. Troy glanced up, saw the tears misting the brown eyes. He blinked hard, refusing to acknowledge the blurring of his own vision.

“I’ll get this to him,” Troy promised.

Dietrich nodded, closed his eyes with a soft sigh. “He will be 65 soon.”

They were suddenly talking about family. The night passed around them as they talked, two men joined by duty and honor; by love of home and country, by regret and pride over what they had done in the desert. They spoke of the war and Troy watched his own pain reflected on Dietrich’s face. There was no hatred or anger; as Dietrich had pointed out long ago, they were soldiers, each doing what they had thought was right. 

As they talked, Troy was struck with the guilty thought that he was glad Dietrich would not be fighting at home. A general once had been quoted as calling the African campaign, “a gentlemen’s war.” Troy had thought it a ridiculous statement at the time. Now, after hearing of some of the fighting in Europe, he understood. Dietrich was an honorable warrior, fighting like he would have been forced to do would have killed more than his body.

Gradually, Dietrich’s breathing grew more difficult, until finally, he whispered, “I don’t believe I... am able to... talk much more.”

“That’s okay,” Troy said. “You’ve always talked too much anyway.”

Dietrich only smiled. 

Troy slid closer, tucked the blankets tighter around officer. He left his hand on the man’s arm. The night grew that little bit darker just before the first streaks of dawn began to glow in the east. As the first color appeared, Troy shook Dietrich’s shoulder. The weary brown eyes opened. Troy realized that Dietrich wouldn’t be able to see anything laying flat on his back.

Troy moved behind the man. Carefully, he lifted Dietrich by the shoulders, resting him against his chest, facing east. The colors grew, became more vibrant. Together they watched the light reach out of the darkness. The sun broke brilliantly over the horizon, making Troy blink.

“Glorious,” Dietrich whispered.

“Yeah,” Troy agreed quietly. “I haven’t watched...”

Dietrich’s head rolled sideways, his last breath brushing across Troy’s throat. 

Troy was a soldier. Soldiers didn’t cry; not over civilians, not over their men, certainly not over their enemies. Troy cried now, for all of them.


End file.
